I try to follow a couple of rules with this blog—tell the truth and wait for the gift before posting. When those are in conflict (the “truth” can be darn ugly when my bipolarness is in the Black), I tend to keep quiet. As Dr. Phil’s dad told him once, “Never miss a chance to keep your mouth shut.” A dear friend reminded me that I’ve been quiet a long time, so I’m here today with my truth and my gifts, such as they are.

It’s a perfect day in Oklahoma—sunny, 72 degrees bound for 81, a gentle breeze. I will have been here a year this week— my willingness to accept and adapt, my participation in the world around me, and the focus of my life have gone through as many rollercoaster rides as my moods. Today I am content and grateful for the gentle weather, the Work, and the projects that put art in the center of my life. Here’s what I’m working on now.

I bought a $2 book at my favorite antique mall for the quotes, then tore the rest of the pages out to make background papers for cards and whatever else might need funky paper. This is my kitchen counter this morning.

Right now, my studio table is putting together three new Libra cards. I’ve loved the beading work on this one. And I can look out the window at my “Rock Garden” and the first doo-dad planted there—a peace pole that says “Be a Steward of the Earth” (a reminder for me to get out and pick up trash).

In my bedroom, I’m thrilled with the utility cart I got from Dick Blick. Everything within reach when I camp out on the bed with Emmett and the latest Netflix binge. Rolling the cart around still freaks Emmett out, but he freaks easily (A moth got inside recently, which sent him into a frenzy).

Right now I’m working on my spread in our Art Journal Round Robin. Our group decided to do another round, and the theme for the journal I have now is “Make Me a Garden.” I had a bunch of tiny portraits, so I’m happily crafting flower hats for them—lilies, Japanese poppies (it tickles me to have Japanese TV characters for these), roses, a bunch of pansies (all men with glasses, though that was not a conscious connection. It’s weird how my brain works sometimes), a clutch of hydrangea girls and a few oddballs. I can’t wait to place them in a garden.

I’m also in the process of making my new series of Month cards. They are more involved and layered with tons of collage elements. Starting next week, the Civic Center will be hosting an arts/crafts event every first Saturday of the month through October. I’ll be part of the Muskogee Art Guild’s booth, and I wanted something new mixed in with the other cards I make. It will be fun to keep a month ahead, adding these cards to my inventory.

I’m also getting my last deck of playing cards ready to become bases for new Penny Positives. It’s grunt work—covering them with gesso, adding paint, maybe a little design, and a sort of “trademark” to the back. But, I like how they turn out, so it’s all worth it.

As I mentioned, arting is the center of my life now. It keeps me from thinking. I never would have believed that thinking might be something to avoid. My intelligence was valued and praised as I was growing up, so I strived to be smart. I discovered this year that thinking can lead me down a dark path where I focus and ruminate on feelings until they turn into truth. This is the year I learned to get out of my head whenever I could and let my hands do my thinking for me. I’ve learned that makes for a much more peaceful existence.

I love my blog. I never came here to do anything except tell my story—whatever that might mean. I never expected to find deep connections. I never expected to touch so many lives. Or to be touched by so many. The only conditions I placed on my posts were to tell the truth and to wait long enough to know what the truth might be in a given situation.

Keeping this space for almost eight years means it has also become my memory. Electroshock not only eliminated 2006 and 2007, but continues to burn holes in the process that changes short-term into long-term memory. I stopped fussing about that long ago. Being forced to live in the Now is a pretty decent way to live.

As I think about making some sort of journal/tribute for Henry, though, I mourn all the stories I’ve forgotten, all the little details, the ways he, Emmett and I became a family. So, when I sit down to write about him, I start with what I notice now. This morning I wrote about how quiet the house is without him. That thought led to another and another, stitching together fragments of memories into a surprising string of delight and appreciation.

And I come to my blog, where Henry’s stories remain clear and available. I took more pictures of the cats so I could illustrate those stories. How grateful I am to have this reliquary! Who knew how smart I was in 2011 to fiddle around with WordPress?

As Emmett and I rearrange ourselves around and within the space that was Henry, I’ll keep coming here to share our truths. Today, Emmett is soaking up the morning sun in the Alpha chair. When I came home from yoga (noticing the silence instead of Henry’s irritated greeting), and saw Emmett basking, I took pictures. This is an important moment for him, for us, for our life now.

The sun and the silence. And the Adventure Continues.

(This song by the Wailin Jennys has always felt like Henry to me—his energy, his personality—so I share him with you in a slightly different way.)

For A Mind Divided’s seventh birthday, I thought I’d look up my very first post. Hmm…somehow this seems so familiar…

♥

Insanity, Creativity and Living in the Now

When I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I thought my life had ended. And in a very real sense, it did. Parts of my life fell off like flesh off a zombie–my home, my job, my friends, my ability to support myself, my ability to live independently. In the months and years that followed, the lessons of living in the NOW and letting go of attachments kept repeating. Living with bipolar disorder (BP) was like living in a constant fire. It burned away everything I thought I knew about myself and how the world works. But with fire comes new growth that could never happen otherwise. I’m finding that to be true in my life as well.

While I always considered myself a writer, I also became an artist because of BP. I needed a way to express the chaos I felt and the wild shifts from despair to joy and back again. My study of the world’s religions deepened. I explored the science and metaphysics of the brain. I also fell in love with “Criminal Minds” and “Fringe.”

I invite you to journey with me into the overlapping realms of mental illness, creativity and spirituality. There will be fire and ice, but also miracles.

I wanted to post something today, a little bit of art that might reflect the bipolarness of my now. Not words. Words feel acidic and tiresome in my head.

But I couldn’t find anything that I haven’t posted before—heads popping open with weirdness, lonely figures wandering in the Disconnect, wild jumbles of frantic images. So I had to make it.

It’s almost 4:00 now. I’ve been working on this card since 10:30 this morning. Bathroom breaks. Cat-watering breaks. Little else. I can feel that I’m hungry. I know I need to take a shower (it’s been a couple of days). But I look into this young girl’s face and fall into it. The original didn’t have sleep-deprived eyes. Those are mine.

I look at this young girl and feel her looking back. We know. We know the green monsters, and bitey teeth, and staring eyes, and nightmares that stick to our backs like tar. We hold ourselves very still, because the madness feels new even though we know it is not. We hold ourselves very still, because part of us believes a shift will come, a swing. We will travel to a different place on our spectrum that will also feel new, but is not.

She knows there really is no Fresh Madness, just forgetting the feel of the Old Madness. There are so many kinds, so many permutations. Our brains, so clever in their Cooking Arts, never use the same recipe twice. Or do they? We forget.

Like this:

Thanks to everyone who offered an opinion about whether A Mind Divided stays or goes. Honestly, I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but holy crow! They just kept jumping out of the water! If I thought my ego was gassy before… well…all I can say is somebody better light a candle.

I’m still pondering. But I also want to keep showing up in a significant way.

While I don’t have the dual diagnosis this book targets, we substitute food for drugs and alcohol sometimes. I’ve been told Binge Eating Disorder is a completely different mechanism than addiction (that wacky, clever brain!), but sometimes it’s useful to look at how I eat to numb and distract. Bipolar disorder, Binge eating disorder, trauma, anxiety—they all twirl together in a Regency Allemande.

•

This actually feels very much like my brain—chaotic, lively, jumbled—with the brooding Mr. Darcy circling the perimeter. There are worse things than being a Jane Austen novel.

I don’t really have much more to say about my experience of bipolar disorder. I’ve spewed. I’ve wallowed. I’ve raged. I’ve picked up shiny objects along the path and given them a look-see. I’ve made lots and lots of Plans. I’ve fought hard and surrendered. I’ve changed my tune as often as my mood.

There’s no end-point, no resolution, no Ah-Ha Moment or Happily Ever After. For me, now, there’s just the daily practice of being me and trying to accept whatever shows up out of the bipolar soup. There’s still pain and confusion, but also moments of soft contentment. I struggle every day with relationships, but so does everyone else on the planet. Periods of suicidal thinking will rise and fall as will my ability to function in the outer world. So be it.

Still.

New stuff keeps surfacing out of this tepid bouillabaisse. Since my therapist and I started working with my PTSD symptoms, my internal weather seems different. The barometric pressure of trauma feels different from that of rapid cycling. Free-floating fear now follows a pattern. Opening the windows to let in fresh air turned out to be much less horrific than I’d imagined. And I have new tools. Gotta love new tools.

Aside from writing about my practice of mental illness, I’ve posted enough fan-fiction to satisfy my ego. Yes, I am a writer. Yes, I can craft a decent story. I don’t need to prove anything anymore. Like Popeye, I yam what I yam.

Still.

I will take these six years of blog posts and rewrite them (with maybe the help of essay rewrite service) into a book of essays that I’ll self-publish sometime this year. Writing is still important to me—not just communicating, but crafting a sentence, weaving a metaphor, developing a thought. Is the challenge to go deeper? Is there a story in acceptance as well as agony? If I stopped blogging, would I search as hard for balance? Do I need this blog to keep me on the Path?

And then there’s the art. Illustrating posts with my cards and collages still lights up my ego. I can feel it light up—all bloat and gas—and wait for the comments to roll in.

Still.

Sometimes, a piece holds more therapy than ego. It carries a different flavor, adds savory and smoke. It blends with the words to create a richer meaning for me. I’m not sure ego ever disappears, but when words and art blend in this way, my ego gets quieter. And when the ego shuts up, all kinds of doors can open. This magic happens in my art journal. I’m not sure it translates here.

Almost every blogger I’ve read comes to this crossroad—continue or stop, take a break or refocus. I need to hold these questions gently and keep showing up while they simmer. Because no matter what…

I haven’t posted much lately because it’s been scary inside my head. There’s a fine line between sharing my practice of bipolar disorder and giving voice to the blackest symptoms. When self-loathing and unrelenting despair become the landscape of my mind, there’s no scenic overlook. While I strive to be honest here, I also know the scenery will change as my brain rolls on down the road, and that perspective provides a much better photo op.

While I attended Lutheran Hospital’s out-patient program, I stopped taking medication for Binge Eating Disorder (BED). We needed to see if it was causing my headaches and contributing to the irritability and rage. Subsequently, all the BED symptoms poured back in—food mania and uncontrollable bingeing. I gained 15 pounds and hurt all over.

BED creates a downward (outward?) spiral—more weight causes less activity which gives all that food more permission to stick around. I was already morbidly obese, but was at peace with my body. Without the Vyvanse, negativity and self-hatred stuffed my head like a Christmas turkey. The spiral became a hopeless vortex.

Nothing in my bag of tricks helped. Death fantasies dogged me, but I knew two things would always stop me from actually taking my life—my cats (who are getting old) and the book I haven’t written. In a weird perversion of logic, I decided that I’d better get cracking on that book if I wanted it to be a party favor at my funeral. At least I’d have a project to work on.

So, this past weekend, I stayed with my friend, Lily, in Minneapolis and met with another friend, Jinjer, to talk about her experience of self-publishing.

And a very bipolar-ly thing happened. Being with these friends, who love me unconditionally, traveling out of the struggle of my everyday life and into a few days of watching Netflix in jammies and spicy tea in handcrafted mugs, jolted the positive neuropathways awake. The hateful Muzak in my head stopped. My friends’ tender care helped me remember myself. All the bits and pieces that BED and depression tore off me, fluttered back like Monarchs to their winter home. Art happened.

And a book will happen.

While I knew Jinjer self-published at least two books, I had no idea one of her many talents was designing books. So instead of beginning a steep learning curve, I gawked at a path as smooth and clear as asphalt. She will take my manuscript (when finished) with the accompanying artwork and midwife it through the process. I started working on the second draft as soon as I got home (and also started back on Vyvanse).

This book is my legacy, not a parting gift. It’s proof that I lived and survived bipolar disorder, BED, PTSD and whatever acronyms stick to me next. Like this blog, it speaks to the speed of landscapes passing through a traveling mind.

Like this:

My computer came home today, perkier, but still not firing on all cylinders. The tech-docs did their best and will continue to monitor vitals. At least I don’t have to create posts on my phone anymore.

Perhaps now my vague disquietude will ease up. I feel like I’m constantly patting my mental pockets to make sure I have my keys. What am I forgetting? I start out the day with my gym bag and art tote, then forget my purse. Once back in the car, I realize I’ve forgotten the letter I need to mail. Then, my coffee. Or like yesterday, I left my coat somewhere and still haven’t found it.

I’m discombobulated, constantly ticking important stuff off on my fingers. Cats alive? Gas in the car? Shoes on? I check my calendar, then look at it again because I can’t remember what was there. I’m guessing my anxiety is a little spiky.

I’ve been getting about two hours of sleep at night for several months —even taking Xanax, which is usually all I need. So, my med provider switched me to Clonazepam—same pharm family (anti-anxiety), but with a longer duration plus a heavy weight blanket. I still wake up three or four times a night, but go back to sleep, which I wasn’t able to do on Xanax. And I’m not waking up furious. That alone is a huge relief. Any morning I can get out of bed not pissed off or in PTSD flashback-mode is already a success—no matter what else follows.

Before Anthony, the tech-surgeon, made his house call this afternoon, I vacuumed and dusted a little—something I haven’t done since summer. I told a friend, “You know it’s time to vacuum when the carpet is crunchy.”

Like my computer, I’m still not firing on all cylinders, but we’re both making progress. Two addled brains are better than one, I guess. It’s a good thing the cats are in charge.

“What ‘real artists’ have is courage. Not enormous gobs of it. Just enough for today. Creativity, like breathing, always comes down to the question, “Are you doing it now?” The awful truth is that there is always one small creative act for which we can find the courage. As with housework, there is always something, and all the little somethings add up, over time, to a flow. Courage, after all is a matter of heart, and hearts do their work one beat at a time.” — Julia Cameron in The Vein of Gold: A Journey to Your Creative Heart

♥

Blogging is so incestuous. I read David Kanigan’s post from Monday, and knew I had something to say about courage, comfort zones and whacking the scales off our sclerotic dendrites. At least I thought I did. Or I wanted to think about those things. Or my ego wanted to jump up and down screaming about them. In public.

I feel pretty brave. Except when I don’t. Driving out to Artfest in Washington this spring didn’t feel particularly brave. Except when I got home and spent the next two months rapid cycling and ducking from my brain’s suicidal dodge balls. Latching onto art journaling to keep from getting hammered by red rubber didn’t seem brave, just a case of self defense. It never occurred to me that drawing and painting when I used to be too scared to do either might be stripping some of the plaque off my craft.

What really felt brave was buying The Hollow Crown and sitting down to over eight hours of Shakespeare. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so dumb. I listened to the pretty words, knew they were an old form of English, but couldn’t translate them. I could feel my brain straining, flabby gray-matter-muscles forced to climb a junior high fitness test rope.

Oh, but, the music of the language! That was the liniment for my bruised brain. Plus, Great Performances emptied out The Royal Shakespearian Theater to cast these four plays, so all the British actors I adore speak this unintelligible music.

I take comfort that I’ve never read Richard II, Henry IV (either Part One or Part Two) or Henry V. I have no bits of them embedded in my hind brain next to the passages of Romeo and Juliet Mrs. Christensen made us memorize in ninth grade.

And, yet, it feels brave to be dumb, to be a Monty Python Gumby shouting, “My brain hurts!”